Coming Home to a Quiet House
Six weeks after the accident, I was discharged from the hospital and brought home by a kind friend from church. My body was still tender, and my heart was still a little fragile, but I was deeply grateful to be walking through my own front door again.
The afternoon light poured into the hallway, warming the old wooden floors in a familiar way. I set my bag down and stood quietly for a moment, just taking in the comfort of my own home.
Then I heard a soft knock at the door behind me.
When I opened it, my breath caught in my throat. Standing on my front step, looking a little nervous and twisting her fingers together, was the very same young girl who had sat beside my hospital bed night after night.
Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears, just as I remembered. Her eyes still held that same gentle, thoughtful look. She was not a dream after all. She was real, and she was standing on my porch.
